Fouettes
by through-the-eye-of-a-needle
Summary: Elizabeth is scared before a performance. Companion piece to Ballet Shoes.


**Fouettes**

_A quick, whipping movement of the raised leg in ballet, usually accompanying a pirouette._

He's waiting for her at the stage door as he always does after performances, with a bouquet of flowers and a wide smile, ready to congratulate her on another successful night. The stars rain silver on the streets from their places high in the heaven of midnight velvet, and a wind whistles softly between the buildings. The arched façade of Covent Garden looms above him, a silhouette rearing its head towards the sky.

After a while, she appears, thanking the backstage porter and shutting the door carefully behind her, before launching herself into his waiting arms. "I've got such exciting news for you," she says, breathlessly, her hair tumbling out of the strictness of her bun. There is make-up streaked across her cheekbone, and he gently wipes it away with his thumb.

"Go on."

"We're doing Swan Lake again, and I'm to be understudy to the prima ballerina!"

"Elizabeth, that's wonderful news!" he grins, picking her up and spinning her around, kissing her and kissing her, until they're both laughing like little children.

"I'm so looking forward to it. Not that I want Natalia to hurt herself, but it's been my dream ever since I was small to dance Odette." Elizabeth links her arm through his, and they begin to make their way back to their flat on the corner under the watch of the benevolent moon.

* * *

However, as the weeks draw on, a small part of him regrets that she's been given this role. He knows it's completely foolish, but she's out at rehearsals all the time until she's so exhausted that when she gets home, she's so tired she can barely walk in a straight line.

The day before the opening night, Elizabeth comes into the flat in an absolute whirlwind, her dress swooshing around her ankles in great snaps of material. He's sitting in an armchair, perusing a new medical journal that his friend and colleague has insisted that he read, and she slumps into the soft embrace of the divan across the coffee table.

"Good day?" he asks, absently.

"Natalia's broken her ankle doing the fouettes," Elizabeth says. "Miles, I'm going to be dancing it tomorrow."

He puts down the journal. "That's good news, isn't it? I've got a ticket for tomorrow anyway…"

To his utter surprise, she begins to cry. "I…I can't…I was so stupid to do this…I'll forget my steps on stage and I'll fall over and everyone will laugh…"

"Elizabeth," he says, standing, holding his arms open. Elizabeth comes to rest her head against his shoulder, her whole body trembling with sobs. "Elizabeth, you're being ridiculous. You're an amazing dancer, and the managers wouldn't have given you the part if they didn't think you capable of it."

"I'm just scared…I have to perform thirty-two turns on the tip of one foot – I'm only managing thirty at the moment, I keep stumbling and I'm just…"

"Elizabeth." He kisses the tip of her nose. "No-one in the audience will be counting. Only you'll know, but it doesn't matter because even the best ballerinas miscount sometimes. No-one will notice."

"Are you sure?"

"Completely."

* * *

The next night, settled in the velvety comfort of his seat in the stalls, he watches as the curtain rises on Swan Lake. Act One passes without incident, and when Elizabeth comes on in Act Two as the Swan Queen Odette, he swears that he's never seen her look more beautiful in her life than in that white tutu that sparkles softly under the lights, shy, reserved, frail as she steps across the stage behind the Prince.

Then Act Three: he clasps his hands into fists on the seat-arms as the music starts. This is the part she was dreading, but when it comes, she sails through the fouettes, all thirty-two of them, light as air and as graceful as a fairy.

At the end, he's on his feet, clapping until his hands are raw as the company take their bows, a perfect picture framed by the curtains, his Elizabeth standing in the centre in her white tutu, smiling as though her cheeks might crack open with the joy of it.

Since then, she's never been scared of the thirty-two fouettes again.

* * *

**A/N **So, what do you think? It's just a little thing that I wrote for TheCurlymop, I do believe. If you'd like to see Gillian Murphy performing the thirty-two fouettes in Act Three of Swan Lake, there's a link on my profile...review! N xxx


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